


Improvised Opus

by GoldenDaydreams



Series: Find Someone To Carry You [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Escape, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, He's Just Bad At Them, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, Nightmares, Nilfgaard Soldiers - Freeform, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Suffering to Survive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Jaskier side-eyed the way the soldier gripped the dagger on his hip.They didn’t seriously think that the Witcher was actually taking responsibility for his charge, did they? Laughable. Geralt of Rivia didn’t want to be needed, he pushed away anyone who tried to worm their way into his life. Jaskier would know, his heart still upon a mountain top.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Find Someone To Carry You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827439
Comments: 50
Kudos: 469
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Improvised Opus

**Author's Note:**

> Juuuuust dippin' my toes into this fandom, hey <3

For the most part, Jaskier didn’t think of Geralt anymore. Certainly not first thing in the morning, with the expectation of another bedroll on the opposite side of the fire. He didn’t think of Geralt during his walks from town to town, never gave a moment’s consideration to the gaping hole where a horse, and her rider used to be. He didn’t think of Geralt when he composed, and certainly never while he sang. Oh no, he never looked to the darkest corners of an inn, never expected golden eyes to be watching. His latest compositions weren’t littered with heartbreak, and he’d never drink one too many ale, nor was he so undignified as to cry himself to sleep. 

No, he didn’t think of Geralt of Rivia, and he certainly didn’t miss him at all. 

Jaskier the bard was doing just fine, thank you very much.

∙∙∙

The town gave Jaskier pause. It was larger than most, closer to becoming a city with every new house built. A bright lively space full of people and businesses: merchants, traders, bakers, and inns. The scent of fresh bread carried along the breeze. Morning dew still clung to the grass. Children ran by carrying sticks like swords. Places like this were his favourite, there were plenty of people to appreciate his music, no shortage of those to buy and trade goods from, a slice of humanity that he could sink into, stories he could overhear, tantalizing content to feed his muse. 

Out of habit more than anything, he walked to the notice board. There were a few notices that appeared to have been ripped off the nails. Another two were still there; a plea to help stock up on firewood before winter from an elderly woman, and one notice for a qwent tournament. He didn’t have a good enough deck to even think of signing up for the tournament. It wasn’t often he’d even beat—

Jaskier turned away from the notice board, and followed his nose to the bakery, spending the last of his coin on a fresh loaf that he picked at for a while before wrapping, and tucking away in his pack for later. He traded some herbs he’d found and dried during his travels to an apothecary in exchange for some honey to go with his bread. 

Overall, a stellar morning until he saw them. The Black Ones. Hair stuck up on the back of his neck while he started to sweat. He was no one, a travelling bard, no longer was he with someone as noticeable as—that didn’t matter. He watched the soldiers march by, people scurried out of the way. Soldiers looked around, stopping to pull back the cloaks on certain people, clearly searching for someone. 

There was nothing he could do about it. It was all so very far from being his problem. He’s not one to fight, he’ll never be in battle. He’ll never matter outside of his songs; the way they make people feel, to alter the way they think, to bring them together under the same roof for one night, a vibrant connection that lasts only a moment. 

He saw more soldiers as the day went on, more soldiers on the street, more soldiers talking to merchants, more soldiers in the inn where Jaskier stood, leaning against the counter bartering with the owner—entertainment for a room, and trying to negotiate a bath in there too. The owner left him to speak with the Nilfgaard soldiers. Jaskier pretended not to listen, dragging his finger over a crack in the wooden counter, pausing when a splinter pressed against a callus. 

“Have you seen a girl, one from out of town, bright of hair?” 

“Can’t say I have, not out in the market, nor in here,” the innkeeper replied. “Still early for a traveller to come through though. Typically get more requests for lodging in the afternoon.”

Jaskier side-eyed the way the soldier gripped the dagger on his hip. “And have you seen a white-haired witcher?”

They didn’t seriously think that the Witcher was actually taking responsibility for his charge, did they? Laughable. Geralt of Rivia didn’t want to be needed, he pushed away anyone who tried to worm their way into his life. Jaskier would know, his heart still upon a mountain top. 

“No, but this isn’t the only inn,” the owner replied. “You could try The Burning Lantern it’s over near the southern gate, can’t miss it.”

The soldier stared a moment, eyes narrowed, but the owner didn’t appear all that intimidated. Finally, the soldier left and the innkeeper returned. “I’ll throw in the bath only because my guests won’t appreciate a smelly bard.” 

Jaskier’s jaw dropped, and he had a retort on his tongue, but the key was dropped on the counter. 

“Second room on the right.” 

Pressure on his tongue as he held it between his teeth, he grabbed the key, and stalked off. 

∙∙∙

  
The crowd stomped their feet, and clapped their hands to the music. Jaskier stepped, light-footed as ever, danced as light as air, fingers a kiss along the strings. The energy of the room building with song, the vibrations of the floor felt under his feet, voices blending in a collection of glorious sound that made his skin tingle with delight. 

He felt larger than life, more aware then ever of his audience, of the music, and maybe that’s why he noticed—nothing more than a blur by the window, passing with great speed. His fingers moved with nothing more than muscle memory, but his mind was elsewhere, stepping closer to the window. By torchlight he witnessed a Nilfgaard soldier pull the hood from a girl with long blonde hair, and he pushed her toward another soldier who took her by the arm and dragged her off. A note off-key pulled him back to the room. 

He wasn’t the only one to notice the soldiers, a young woman in the corner trembled, her dress dirty, her curls fair. They were looking for Cirilla—no longer passively, not simply asking the innkeeper or baker, but taking and vetting young girls, and likely anyone they even suspected of knowing something more.

He turned on the worn heel of his boot, wove his way through those who’d started to crowd the windows, making it to the back as a soldier stormed in. He ignored the shrieks, the sounds of a brawl, he pulled the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door to his room. 

Inside, he locked the door, tossed the key on the bed, he didn’t bother wasting seconds getting his lute into it’s case, simply swinging it from his front to his back. He grabbed his bag, and walked straight to the window. It didn’t open, but he grabbed the candle holder and shattered the glass, no one would hear the noise over the brawl downstairs, and he wasn’t worried about the innkeeper—Jaskier wouldn’t be back. 

Heart-pounding, he dragged the candle holder around the windowpane, trying to get rid of as many sharp pieces of glass as he could risk before fitting himself through, causing only one small tear on the sleeve of his doublet. He moved carefully along the metal awning, grateful that it held his weight. He jumped down at the end, into the hay that was piled between the inn and the stables. 

If the soldiers discovered him to be the bard of the White Wolf, regardless of how outdated the information was, it wouldn’t bode well for him. He hadn’t seen Geralt in over a year, not since the mountain. The man had already destroyed his heart, he’d be damned if he would die for him too. He moved between the inn and the stable, glad to have taken the time to familiarize himself with the town earlier in the day. 

He needed to get out of town, and if that wasn’t possible, which he suspected that it wasn’t, surely there were guards posted at every entrance to the city, then he needed to find a place to hide until they passed. 

In the shadows, he waited until he could get past the street, tucking himself between houses, weaving his way around until he had a clear line of sight to the northern entrance where he’d come in. Five soldiers. Too difficult to pass. 

Found much the same at the southern entrance. The third to the west only had two soldiers. While debating on if the risk was worth it, he saw a man with a dark cloak, pushing along a shorter charge in a dirtied blue cloak, too bright, standing out in such a royal colour. 

_The Universe was surely fucking with him._

He said nothing, just reached out of the shadows and grabbed the girl, yanking her close. Things happened in quick succession; she tried to scream and Jaskier covered her mouth with his hand, the dark cloak fell from the man’s shoulders exposing two swords, and in the next moment steel was pressed to his throat. 

Jaskier hushed the girl, but Geralt didn’t drop the blade. “Shut up, and put that blade down before you get us all killed.”

A sharp kick to his shin had him hissing out a breath, and she managed to get a wicked hold on his hand twisting in such a way that brought him to his knees arching trying to get the pressure on his hand to let up. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Let go!” 

“Release him,” Geralt’s deep voice that haunted his dreams brought an end to the pain, and Jaskier massaged out the tension in his palm as he stood once more. “What are you doing here, Jaskier?” 

“Playing at the inn before Nilfgaard started grabbing people of interest. Any young women who—”

“I know,” Geralt cut him off, glancing at Cirilla. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but look either. It had been four years since he’d played in Cintra’s court, but who could forget the Lion Cub of Cintra—though it was likely she’d forgotten him. She’d grown, but still held her youth, though perhaps not her innocence. “We need to get you out of here, Princess.” While he’d been invested on getting himself out, he couldn’t prioritize himself over the sweet little girl who’d danced as he played, who’d pulled on the end of his tunic as he’d been leaving and asked him to return for her nameday, and he had, he’d played well into the night, until Eist had carried the sleeping Cirilla off to bed. 

“Do you have a way out of here?” he asked Geralt while refusing to look at the man. 

“Not yet.” The deep rumble of Geralt’s voice rattled the cobwebs from his heart. “Guards at every entrance—”

“West has the least.”

“Hmm.” _I know_. Jaskier hated he could still tell the meaning of a simple hum. 

“But you need to get out without being noticed, there are too many of them, and they’ll give chase. Where’s Roach?” 

“Field.”

Sometimes he left her in such places, if going on a hunt, or if he didn’t intend on staying in town long enough to pay a stable hand to care for her. “Lucky enough that it’s to the West?”

“East.”

“Fuck. You’ll have to loop around.” Then to Cirilla. “Take off your cloak, I’ll trade you-” his fingers already on the buttons of his doublet. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Geralt asked even at Cirilla looked up at Geralt for directions. 

“Distraction. I’m going to wear the cloak, which for fuck sake, it’s bright blue, buy her a cloak that _blends_ , you oaf! They’ll be distracted by me, right now there aren’t many guards by the west entrance, and if we move quickly, I can distract them and you two can slip out.” He picked up his lute and thrust it into Geralt’s hands, surprised him enough that he took it without complaint, nor did he drop it to the ground. “Take care of that for me, or so help me I’ll… I will sing a most unpleasant song about you-”

“All your songs are unpleasant.”

“Oh, fuck you very much.” 

“Geralt?” Cirilla looked up at the man with such wide, fearful eyes. 

“Do as he says, it’s not the worst plan.” From Geralt, that was practically a glowing compliment. 

Jaskier held his doublet in his hand while Cirilla unfastened her cloak. They traded and while the doublet was a little too big around her shoulders, it would suit just fine. “One more thing-” he pulled a cap he’d bought a few towns over to keep the sun out of his eyes while walking, not to mention, he thought he looked rather dapper in it. He was careful with her hair, twirling it around his finger and tucking it into the cap he fitted upon her head. Given the darkness, the cap, and doublet she looked more the part of the male travelling bard than a youthful princess. 

While the cloak dragged on the ground on Cirilla, it hit Jaskier just below the knees, and he did his best not to think about the mud, or the fact that the wetness stained his pants, and made his skin damp. 

“There is a town, a couple days from here,” Jaskier said. “Take path going east. It’s a pretty straightforward trip and only a couple days walk. When I was there, there was talk of the Black Ones. They’d already been through, they’re unlikely to backtrack. Meet me there.” He looked at Geralt, who’s face was as tight and serious as he’d ever seen it. “I want my stuff back.” 

Geralt nodded, but strapped it onto Cirilla. Made sense, he’d stick out even more, this hulking man in all black with a decorative lute on his back. Jaskier thrust his pack at them too, filled with his life’s belongings, and what little coin he had, he needed to be small and fast if he were to pull it off, and the pack would only serve to give him away.

Jaskier took a deep breath, brushed past the two to peek out of the little space between homes they’d found momentary safety in. It wouldn’t take long, more soldiers would be through. Jaskier tried to ignored the arguments, the shouting, the crying in the streets; the sounds of pain and grief, but he was so in tune with sound it hit him with the same soul shaking clarity and power as the song and dance in the inn had. 

He couldn’t let Geralt, and Cirilla’s voices add to the symphony of anguish. 

Only a second did he look back, Cirilla holding tight to Geralt’s arm, watching Jaskier with her wide blue eyes. Geralt’s golden eyes stared, looking grim, but he nodded, entrusting their lives to Jaskier. He slipped out into the street, moving quick with his head down. The torch’s on houses were mostly out, but he moved by fearful locals, stepped around a travelling merchant who’d spilled some of his wares. 

At the crossroads near the exit, he stopped. The two guards stared, and one took one step forward and Jaskier took off. He looked over his shoulder, both soldiers running after him. “Stop! Stop at once!” One of the men shouted but Jaskier paid him no mind. 

He darted left, and nearly collided with another soldier, he tucked under the man’s arm, and kept on running. He unclasped the cloak but held it together waiting, there were too many converging upon him. Turning toward a house, he let the cloak fall from his shoulders as he barged through the door. A woman holding her two children screamed. There were heavy furs over a window frame, making up for the fact there was no glass. He climbed through, and dropped into the garden. 

With burning lungs, and his legs threatening to give out, he sprinted across the garden, hopped the fence, rushed across the street, running between homes and ending up in the southeast corner. The large walls that were around the entirety of the town had trapped them, but now was part of his hiding spot. The grass there was utterly overgrown, an absolute mess, and he carefully took big steps through it, trying to leave it as unaltered as possible before curling up on his side with his back to the wall. Every breath burned, his mouth dry, legs tingling, and he was sweating everywhere despite the cool night air. 

He panted until his heart rate started to settle back into something more manageable, only to spike to Allegro as the clatter of armour got closer, and closer. 

Breath stuck in his lungs, too afraid to even breathe. 

They walked on by. 

At some point in the night, he fell asleep. He was lucky, the overgrown grass and common herbs kept him hidden. Soldiers were still there when he awoke, still harassing the locals. From his hidden spot, he’d already watched a man dragged off—a man trying to protect his daughter who had a passing resemblance to Cirilla. Despite one of the guards stating that this girl was not the one they’d been looking for, they still sentenced the man to hang for merely trying to hide her. 

If they found him, if they figured out who he was, he would surely share the same fate. He stayed still, all out of grand acts of bravery. Perhaps that bravery had never been his in the first place, maybe just being in the Witcher’s presence made him feel safe enough to be daring, convinced him that things would play out in their favour.

The unyielding ground hurt his hips. He could feel every stone, and clump of dirt digging into his body. He didn’t risk a stretch. Hunger became mildly uncomfortable at mid-day, while his bladder protested, his throat so parched it hurt, and his right arm had begun to tingle. He didn’t move. 

Nilfgaard soldiers continued their search during the night, and Jaskier wished curses upon all of them. The pain from his bladder put him at the point of wriggling to try to hold it, and eventually just pissing himself, absolutely miserable about it, between the wet breeches, and the smell. 

He grit his teeth. Nilfgaard would not find him. 

Thirst and hunger once again made themselves known but surviving counted on him staying put. He didn’t need food or drink as much as he needed to ensure his entrails stayed inside where they belonged—he couldn’t risk being recognized—he’d given his name when talking to the baker, and the innkeeper, he had even foolishly introduced himself at the start of his set, even after he’d known the soldiers were there. A foolish error. He’d been lucky before, that that Nilfgaard soldier saw a dirty, lone travelling bard, and not Jaskier, Bard of the White Wolf. There was no guarantee that he’d be so lucky again. No guarantee that one of the villagers wouldn’t out him to protect their own loved ones. He wouldn’t blame them, but he wouldn’t trust in them for his own safety. 

Upon the next morning, he watched with morning dew on his eyelashes as the collection of soldiers marched on empty handed. Jaskier stayed in his hiding spot for a while, carefully stretching his body out, his knees ached when he straightened out his legs, the rest of his body protested too. 

He heard people mourning in the streets. On this morning, there was no scent of fresh baked bread, no laughter in the streets, no clang of the blacksmith. Death and fear had taken up residence in the town. 

He bid his time until there was no one around before he slowly stood, using the wall for support. He ignored the feeling of his breeches dried stiff against his legs. No one paid him any mind. In nothing but a tunic, and piss stained breeches, he looked more like a drunk coming off a bender than a notable bard. He walked right out the east gate, and didn’t look back. 

∙∙∙

He walked to the lake where he’d camped days previous. His personal luxury items were with Geralt of all people. The brute wouldn’t even enjoy his lemongrass soap, nor his honey scented creams. What a waste. The frigid water revived him, and took his breath away as he dunked himself under. He washed his clothes first, the best he could under the circumstances and left them on the land flat out in the sun to dry. He stood in water right up to his neck. There hadn’t been evidence of any drowners the last time he’d been there, and felt relatively secure. He let himself fall back, slipping completely under, noises warping in the water before he pushed himself back to the surface and walked closer to land. 

He sat on a smooth rock where the water was just deep enough to keep him underwater from the waist down. The tension in his shoulders started to lessen as the warm sun dried the beads of water from his skin. It helped, to be calmed by the lap of the water brushing past his body and meeting the shore. 

When the water made his fingertips wrinkle, he finally left the water. Carefully, barefoot and naked did he collect some berries from the bushes around the edge of the lake. It only made his hunger more prominent. No time to be wasted attempting to catch a fish, or set a trap for hare like Geralt had taught him. He dressed as soon as he was completely dry and his clothes were deemed dry enough. 

He walked along the path carved out by the wheels of carts, and the hooves of horses. Walked until the sun started to set, his legs trembled, and he tucked himself against a fallen tree to catch some sleep. 

Nightmares had plagued him during the night, the screams of the villagers, one of the Black Ones pulling back the hood on a girl, and Cirilla’s bright blue eyes staring at him, expecting him to save her, only to discover he couldn’t move, stuck in place, watching through the grass as Geralt came forth to fight against the impossible odds, and to fall to them. The Black Ones leaving with Cirilla, and Geralt laying on the road, rivulets of blood even making it all the way to where Jaskier laid frozen. 

Horrifically real, he’d continue waking and falling back into the dream, no rest, just fear. 

At sunrise he woke for good, cold and alone. For a while, he laid there. 

He was only going to Geralt to retrieve his things. He hadn’t done anything for Geralt, he’d done everything for Cirilla. Every act in protection of a little girl, so she would have a chance at life. Perhaps she would grow to be a great ruler, someone who would finally bring peace to the continent. If not, a child deserved to be safe. He’d done it for the greater good. 

Not Geralt. 

Geralt hadn’t argued, hadn’t worried, not for Jaskier. He’d been willing to sacrifice Jaskier for his child of surprise. With a frown, Jaskier realized he didn’t blame Geralt. The Witcher had made his feelings clear on that mountain top. If it came down to Jaskier or Cirilla, he wouldn’t have to think a second. And really, Jaskier hadn’t either. 

He forced himself to sit up. If he walked all day he might just make it to the next town by nightfall. He could get his coin purse back… basically empty, but he would get Geralt to feed him. It was the least he could do. 

Every step he took highlighted his current state, dehydrated, hungry, aching, exhausted. His side started cramping halfway through the day. Geralt’s super-hearing might be able to pick out where a stream ran through, but Jaskier couldn’t risk getting turned around and lost. 

He pushed forth, daydreaming not of lyrics or his latest lovers for once, but instead of food, the softness of some boiled potatoes, the tough chew in a gamy cut of meat, maybe a stew would be available, and he’d get the best of both worlds, along with some broth to help his dry throat. Certainly some ale, he wouldn’t even complain if it was a Kaedwenian Stout. 

He daydreamed of every food he’d ever eaten, and promised to never take his meals for granted again. He wondered if he’d still have a stale loaf of bread in his pack,but understood the practicality of Geralt sniffing it out and offering it to Cirilla. The honey would be a luxury, probably ignored by Geralt, but Jaskier spent a good bit of time muttering prose about it’s sweet taste, and golden colour. 

As darkness fell, he saw a town in the distance by the torchlights on the houses. Even when it was too dark to see his feet, he stumbled along, following the flickering firelight in the distance. 

Stepping into the small town made him freeze. What would he do if Geralt had decided to continue on, or paused only to continue when Jaskier had taken too long to arrive? What if Geralt had decided it would be safer to never go to this town at all—in the event that Jaskier had been captured, and ran his big mouth? Geralt had his lute—his livelihood, and all his supplies. How would he survive without those few things?

Every bit as terrifying, what if Geralt was there? His brain had talked big game on the walk about how he would demand a meal, a bath, and a room at the very least, but how could he demand anything from a man who said, _‘if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,’_ maybe he thought Nilfgaard had done just that in a permanent sense. 

Maybe he was even happy about it. 

Melitele knew Jaskier had stood on that mountain top praying for Geralt’s shoulders to drop, to turn around, to say he didn’t mean it, to apologize—a wait done in vain. 

He had to know. One way or another. He hoped they were still here, not because he had a stupid, traitorous heart who wanted to see Geralt again like an utter masochist. For his lute. Of course. 

Recalling his memories of the town, he made his way directly to the inn, and shoved open the door, stumbling a little in his exhaustion. A sudden scrape of a bench moving as someone stood too fast, and he turned toward the noise. Geralt stood there, Cirilla still wearing the hat, but changed into a lighter tunic, gwent laid on the table between them. 

Other patrons had started to stare. 

“If you’re going to fight, take it outside,” the barkeep yelled. 

Geralt moved, not with the grace from the battlefield, but a strange little step forward like his body had stuttered, but his following steps were purposeful. He grabbed Jaskier by the shoulders, then cupped his chin making him look up, then gently guiding his face side to side. “Hurt?”

Between the soft touch, and the pinch of Geralt’s brow, Jaskier’s delusional mind figured the Witcher might just care. Just a smidge. Or that his guilt had reared it’s head—a more likely conclusion. 

Used to Geralt’s minimalistic speech, and comforted by the fact that Geralt had at the very least waited in this town for him to arrive, Jaskier responded in kind. “Hungry.”

Geralt nodded, he pulled a key from his pocket and tucked it into Jaskier’s hand. Over his shoulder he made a hand motion at Cirilla who quickly gathered up their gwent cards, and hurried to his side. “Take him to our room,” Geralt said, barely a murmur but the girl nodded, her big eyes turning to Jaskier, tilting her head to the side in a motion to follow. 

He matched her pace but remained a few steps behind. The inn was only one level, rooms down a narrow hallway, and they had the room at the end, of course, Geralt’s preference—if someone went searching room to room, they’d start in the closest ones giving him time to get out, or devise a plan.

Cirilla unlocked the door, and held it open as Jaskier dragged his feet the last few steps to relative safety. Once the door shut with a click, he leaned against the wall. He hoped Geralt brought him some water at least. He should have been more specific with his requests, but being greedy might have left him with nothing. 

The princess, and Geralt’s child of surprise stood in front of him. He stared at her unsure why she was staring at him—well, he probably looked in a right state but—

She hugged him, so suddenly he was knocked back a step. “Thank you,” she whispered but the light words carried heavy gratitude. 

He awkwardly patted her back. “It was the right thing to do.” 

“Geralt kept looking over his shoulder the whole way here,” she said, a soft whisper as if it were a secret that required the utmost protection. “And I don’t think he was looking for Nilfgaard soldiers.” 

A poet knew to read between the lines. 

She released him when there was a mighty bang on the door. “Fiona, open,” Geralt’s deep voice came through, and she rushed to open the door for him. He’d managed to balance two plates on one arm like one of the serving girls; one of meat and potatoes, the other a smaller dish of dried fruits and nuts. In his other hand two steins, held together by their handles. He walked the meal directly to the small table with a singular chair. He looked at Jaskier, and pointed at the chair. “Sit.” 

Jaskier would have a retort if he wasn’t so exhausted, and starving, and was all that for him? He shuffled along, and practically collapsed into the seat. One of the steins was full of water, the other looked to be a Redanian Lager. He chugged back the water before shoving a large slice of boiled potato into his mouth, it burned the roof of his mouth a little, but he was far too hungry to care. 

“Ordered a bath,” Geralt said. “Don’t have enough coin for another room. You’ll have to stay with us.” 

Jaskier nodded, a little more alert, looking around as he cut blindly into the meat. His lute had been set across the foot of one of the two beds, all in one piece. His pack was set up at the foot of the bed. The fireplace crackled as one of the logs shifted, sparks danced, and settled in the ashes. 

The meat was a little tough but cooked well, and so flavourful he nearly cried. As he ate, a the innkeeper continued to bring up buckets of heated water, filling the tub. The bath was ready by the time he’d eaten the meat, and most of the potatoes, which left him too full to continue. The fruit and nuts would keep though, he planned to nibble on them through the next day until he could hopefully make some coin in the night. 

Geralt locked the door when the innkeeper left. He grabbed a book from their pile of belongings and shoved it into Cirilla’s hands before making a turn-about motion with a finger. She looked to the bath, then to Jaskier then Geralt, and nodded. She sat on the bed facing the wall, book on her lap. 

“Do you feel any better?” she asked. Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, emphasizing the question had been directed to him. 

“A bit, thank you.” He looked at the lute laid out behind her. “I see you took great care of my lute.” 

The girl hadn’t even opened the book. “It was the least I could do,” she said like every word held a weight she couldn’t quite carry, and his heart ached for her. 

“Get in the bath,” Geralt said. “You reek.”

Under pre-mountain circumstances he’d have a sharp retort at the ready. He had nothing now. Given the Witcher’s enhanced senses, and the fact that he’d washed up in a lake where the water had tasted slightly of hornwort, he didn’t think he really had a foot to stand on in an argument anyway. 

He stripped bare unashamed, it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t seen him bare as the day he’d been born before. He was already in the water, the heat getting to work at his tense muscles, before he realized his soap was still in his bag. “Do you mind-”

Geralt was already moving to the bag. He pulled out the half loaf of days old bread still wrapped in a cloth—untouched, the jar of honey, and some loose parchment before locating the bar of soap. He left Jaskier’s belongings on the foot of the bed with the lute as he delivered the soap. 

“Thank you.” 

Geralt ‘hmm’ed in response. 

“How did you escape?” Cirilla asked. 

“Leave him be,” Geralt cut in. 

Cirilla noisily flipped through pages only to slam it shut. 

“I ran, dropped your cloak when I could, found a hiding spot, stayed put until they left,” Jaskier said, taking a page from Geralt’s book, giving enough information to answer, but with the fewest words. “I’m sorry about your cloak.” 

Cirilla was quiet for a tense minute, before she sighed. “It’s okay.” 

“Get some sleep,” Geralt advised the girl. “We’ll leave as soon as we’re able.” 

She let the book drop to the floor, and curled up on her side. By the time that Jaskier felt clean again, and stepped out of the tub, she’d finally stopped moving around, and had gone limp in sleep. He dried, pulled a clean set of clothes from his pack—in an inn he didn’t typically wear much to bed unless it was the colder months—but he was well aware of the young princess, and dressed appropriately. He jammed his dirty clothes into the tub, shoving up the sleeves of his grey tunic, but Geralt grabbed him by the shoulders, and redirected his body toward the bed. “Go sleep.” 

“I need to wash-”

“I’ll do it, go to sleep.” 

Jaskier stared at him, trying to get his mutinous tongue to cooperate, a quick retort, a stinging insult—something. 

Geralt’s attention went elsewhere, his eyes tracking like he could see through the walls, and Jaskier knew he was tracking the sound of something out in the tavern. A non-threat apparently, since his golden eyes focussed once more on Jaskier. “Go to bed.” 

Jaskier didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. He fell onto the bed, and ceased to move, slipping away between one breath, and the next. 

∙∙∙

He awoke to the soft glow of dawn, fireplace still alive on the other side of the room. On the wooden chair which had been set near the fire, his clothes dried. Nearby Geralt was kneeling in meditation, but he immediately turned to Jaskier when he sat up. Geralt glanced at the window, and shook his head. “Go back to sleep.”

Jaskier’s eyes were nearly too heavy to lift, he certainly didn’t have the energy for an argument as he kicked off the blanket he was sure he hadn’t pulled on. “Privy,” was all he said. Geralt tossed the key at him, he missed catching it entirely, and fetched it off the floor. Once he stepped out into the hallway, he locked the door. In the tavern, the barkeep was putting away a few bottles, and pointed the way out back. 

After relieving himself, he returned to the room. He set the key down on the table, Geralt’s eyes followed him as he laid back down. This time, Jaskier stared at the fire until he slipped back into slumber. 

The second time he awoke it was to Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. Geralt didn’t say anything, but brushed a thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone, and to his embarrassment he felt the smearing of hot tears. He pulled away, and ran his hands over his face, the lingering nightmare the same as those out in the woods. Geralt didn’t ask, Cirilla didn’t stare, and he was grateful. 

“Got you porridge,” Geralt said. “I know you hate it cold, so you should have it now.” 

He didn’t know how he could eat with the echos of the dream still poisoning his mind. Blood creeping closer, Geralt’s empty eyes staring. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkled. “You’re safe here.” 

Jaskier’s throat tightened, he nodded anyway. 

Already with her porridge in hand, Cirilla sat on the bed she’d slept in, looking distinctly unhappy. Jaskier grabbed the honey that had never been put away, and held it out for her. She blinked, reached out timidly, but took it. “Thank you.” 

He nodded in return, waiting for her to pour it on hers before handing it back. He poured some on his own, and despite the fact that Geralt seemed fine eating the gruel, Jaskier poured it on his too. 

“Will you travel with us?” Cirilla asked. 

“No,” Jaskier replied, pushing his spoon around the porridge, honey glistening on the oats. He didn’t want to see Cirilla crestfallen, nor did he want to see Geralt shushing her with a look. 

“Jaskier.” A long study of Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier could hear what he meant just by the tone in which he’d said his name, and could translate it to _‘I regret what I’ve done,’_ but that just wasn’t good enough. 

“We’re not too far off from the Tukaj Hills, a number of settlements there, and they surely don’t have much for entertainment,” Jaskier pressed on, “I could surely find myself some work there.” 

“Jaskier.” The weight of his name changed, shifted, featherlight, and afraid the wind might blow it away. Good. 

“No,” Jaskier said, voice flat but unyielding. “I helped you—Cirilla, I helped her because it was the right thing to do. And now that I have my things, I’ll be on my way.” 

“Don’t,” Geralt replied, tense like preparing for a battle he wasn’t sure he’d survive, and Jaskier knew he meant; _‘I’m sorry.’_ It didn’t matter, Jaskier would not budge, he wouldn’t read between the lines for him, nor forgive him on an assumed apology that he so desperately wanted to hear. Perhaps he was imagining the regret now—after all, he hadn’t expected the words on the mountain in the first place—maybe he wasn’t as great at reading Geralt as he thought. 

Jaskier set his empty bowl aside, and started to pack up his things. He knew he’d slept well into the day by the way the sun came through the window casting short beams of light on the floor. Geralt never let him sleep in, but this time had only awoken him because of the nightmare. A sign of care or guilt? It didn’t matter. He gave the lid on the honey an extra twist, and checked for any lingering stickiness. Last thing he needed was for it to mess up his parchment, and quills. 

He stood, ready to wish Cirilla well only to face Geralt who moved far too quietly for a man of his size. Geralt who had a pinch in his brow, and determination burning in his eyes. “If life could give me one blessing,” he said so softly that Jaskier’s heart clenched, “it would be to have you in it.”

So few words, yet Jaskier was overcome with the presence of spring thaw, not over the land but over his heart, a moment of renewal, and hope. The fight left him, shoulders dropping, for how could he, a poet, a bard possibly withstand the altering of the sentence which had split them apart being used to bring them back together. 

“Well, we can’t have you without your blessings,” Jaskier said with a smirk. “Destiny won’t allow it.” 

“Not Destiny,” Geralt said. “Choice.” 

No higher power brought them, nor kept them together. Jaskier stayed because he wanted to, Geralt allowed it, the choice made their connection feel all the more powerful. No higher power, no wish forced their hand, they remained together because they wanted to.

Jaskier couldn’t help but push just a little, fighting a smirk. “You choose me?” 

Geralt gave a half shrug, and Cirilla kicked him in the shin. Geralt glared at the girl, but then nodded. “Yes.” 

“Well, we’ve killed half the day.” Jaskier clapped his hands together. “Shall we get moving? You two have been in one place long enough.” 

“Pack up, we leave in five,” Geralt said as he set to putting his armour back on. 

Cirilla bounced up onto her toes with delight. “Oh this is wonderful! I can’t wait to hear all your stories, and Geralt said you’re the best lute player he’s ever heard—’

“Oh, really?” Jaskier looked to Geralt, who momentary froze before he finished buckling part of his armour. 

“Three minutes,” Geralt said, stalking off, to get Roach ready. 

∙∙∙

For the most part, Jaskier didn’t think of the mountain anymore. Not when, first thing in the morning, he saw Geralt on the other side of the fire, Cirilla laying on another like a bridge between them. He wasn’t weighted down by the old hurt when they went from town to town, horse, rider, and a sweet girl who hung on his every word. He composed with light in his heart, ballads of Geralt’s heroics, and fun little ditties for Cirilla to learn, and sing, and dance to. He felt safe where he went, golden eyes vigilant in their watch. His latest compositions were littered with friendship, and redemption. He drank just a little with his companions, and rested easy in their company. 

No, he didn’t think of the mountain or heartbreak anymore, and he felt lighter than ever, safe and happy. 

Jaskier the bard was doing just fine, thank you very much.


End file.
